A Leaf, Fallen (trigger warning)

there is no manual for loss
not one that fits in human hands
just programs, policies
and symbols for the staff,
unassuming, visual reminders
to execute the sensitivities
outlined in their training

grief is a symbol, nicely-printed
on quality cardstock,
grief is placed strategically
in and outside the room,
its scene stands out
as darker than it actually is
since its placard
hosts the only real colors
on a ward of pastel pinks,
blues and yellows

and there, within the four sides
of its cleanly cut cardstock,
a leaf floats, too light
to break the surface tension
of a still stream

i'm sure a marketing study was performed
various walks of life, assembled
into panels of votes taken
and consensus reached
as to what image
would stand out enough
but not too much,
as to what could shift the mind
toward peace and reflection,
but, more importantly,
away from what just happened

and i didn't bother
remembering the room number
because, within that pastel cellblock,
ours was the only door
marked with this visual vacuole,
a leaf, fallen too early, floating
on the humbling unbreathable stillness
of expired hope
a leaf, floating frozen
in that fraction of moment
before the stream swallowed
and took it back

and there is no manual for life
to tell you when a child
actually becomes a child, nor gauge
for what level of grief you have a right to,
at whatever point in the process
when things go wrong,
yet, even without a manual,
i freeze in the hallway, waiting
for the intercom's rock-a-bye chime to end
before opening the door

and when the clergyman
makes his rounds,
we let him in to do his thing
because, why the fuck not?
because the fresh parts, beneath those cut off
are starting over, looking for anything
resembling a reason
to not follow that leaf
back into the stream

and i'll go home, erase the evidence
move the playmat and toys
to that same dark side of the basement
they still occupy a year later, where
even with time's passage,
one black hole of a day
can still condense
into so much more than a symbol,
into something similar to one of us
and like us, it steps these floors
and sleeps these sheets
sometimes darker, yet sometimes brighter
than the host of darks around us

and here, in and out of the stream,
we're spirit breath and earth pulse
we're life, its end
and the love lived
in both its dark and light,
we are more than a symbol,
we're a family
and grief is only one of us